THE HORSE-CHESNUT versus THE CHESNUT HORSE.
A Favorite Comic Recitation.
AN Eton stripling, training to the law,
A dunce at syntax, but a dab at taw,
One happy Christmas laid upon the shelf
His cap and gown, and store of learned pelf,
By invitation, thought he'd take a roam,
To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home.
Arriv'd, and pass'd the usual how d'ye do's,
Inquiries for old friends and college news,
"Well Tom, the road, what you saw worth discerning,
How goes study-what is it you're learning?"
"Oh! logic, Sir, but not the shallow rules
Of Locke and Bacon, antiquated fools!
"Tis wit, and wrangler's logic; thus d'ye sec
I'll prove to you as plain as A, B, C,
That an eel-pie's a pigeon; to deny it
Were to say black is not black.” "Come, try it."
"An eel-pie is a pie of fish."-" Agreed."
"A fish-pie may be a Jack-pie."-" Well, proceed."
"A Jack-pie is a John-pie, and 'tis done,
For a John-pie's the same with a pie John.'
"Bravo!" Sir Peter cries, " logic for ever,
That beats my grandmother, and she was clever;
But, Tom, since 'twould be very hard,
That all this learning should have no reward,
To-morrow, for a stroll, the park we'll cross,
And then I'll give thee" "What?" "My chesnut horse."
"A horse!" quoth Tom, " blood, pedigree and paces!
Zounds! what a dash I'll cut at Epsom Races."
To bed he went, and slept for downright sorrow,
That night must pass before he'd see the morrow,
Dreamt of his boots and spurs, and leather breeches,
Hunting of cats, and leaping rails and ditches.
The morning came; he rose before the lark,
And dragg'd his Uncle, fasting to the park.
Halter in hand, each vale he scour'd, at loss
To spy out something like a chesnut horse;
But no such animal the pasture cropp'd.
At length beneath a tree, Sir Peter stopp'd,
A branch he took, and shook it, when down fell,
A fine horse-chesnut in its prickly shell,
"Here Tom, take this"-"Well Sir, and what beside?" "Why since you're booted, saddle it and ride," "Ride what? a chesnut!"
Aye, come get across, I tell you, Tom, that chesnut is a horse, And all the horse you'll have, for I can shew, In spite of reason, that it's even so; Not by the musty, fusty, worn out rules,. Of Locke and Bacon, antiquated fools! Nor old Des Cartes, blind pilot into knowledge, But by the laws of wit and Eton College; You've clearly prov'd it, and I don't deny, That a pie John's the same as a John pie.' What follows, then?" Why as a thing of course, That a horse-chesnut, is a chesnut horse!”
OUR OWN FIRESIDE.
DEAR in the moon's soft blowing gale
Is budding May;
Sweet in the wild rose scented vale
The scattered hay;
Dear is the early evening star,
The lover's guide;
But dearer still and sweeter far,
Our own fireside.
Dear is the linnet's lively song
That cheers the grove;
Sweet is the breeze that wafts along
The sigh of love;
Dear to the sailor's ear the call
Of land descried;
But, ah! more dear, more sweet than all,
Our own fireside.
OH! come with me my Love,
And our fairy home shall be,
Where the water spirits rove,
In the deep, deep sea.
There are jewels rich and rare,,
In the caverns of the deep,
And to braid thy raven hair,
There the pearly treasures sleep.
In a tiny Man of War,*
Thou shalt stem the ocean's tide,
Or in a crystal car,
Sit a Queen in all her pride,
Oh! come with me, &c.,
Oh! come with me my Love,
And our fairy home shall be,
Where the water spirits rove,
In the deep, deep sea.
Ah! believe that Love may dwell,
Where the coral branches twine,
And that ev'ry wreathed shell,
Breathes a tone as soft as thine,
Hopes as fond as thou would'st prove,
Truth as bright as e'er was told,
Hearts as warm as those above,
Dwell under the waters cold.
Oh! come with me, &c.
I'LL GIVE YOU THE LAND WE LIVE IN.
THE sparkling liquor fills the glass,
And briskly round the board it goes,
We toast in turns each fav'rite läss
And drink confusion to our foes:
While each in turn the catch, the glee,
The song, the toast, is given;
And ever, as it comes to me. Pa
I'll give the land we live in
Then arise all hearts, and join in the glee,
With a loud Huzza, and three times three-
Huzza, I'll give you the land we live in,
This glorious land we live in.
• A bubble on the Ocean, called by the Sailors a Portuguese Man of War.
Our captain always give the King,
His bosom glows with loyal flame;
While all the deck in praises sing
Of valiant Smith and Nelson's name.
God bless this land of liberty,
The song, the toast is given;
And ever as it comes to me,
I'll give the land we live in.
Then arise all hearts, &c.
Some folks may envy foreign parts,
And wish to gain some distant shore;
But let them go with all our hearts,
We shall be plagued with them no more.
God bless this land of liberty, hated
The song, the toast is givengrøta
And ever as it comes to me, arba Y I'll give the land we live in.
Then arise all hearts, &c.
ENGLAND, EUROPE'S GLORY.
THERE is a land amidst the waves,
Whose sons are fam'd in story,
Who never were, or will be slaves,
Nor shrink from death or glory!
Then strike the harp and bid it swell,.
With flowing bowl before ye,
Here's to the land in which we dwell,
To England, Europe's Glory.
Blest land, beyond all lands afar,
Encircled in the waters,
With Lion-hearted sons in war,
And Beauty's peerless daughters.
Go ye, whose discontented hearts,
Disdain the joys before ye,
Go, seek a home in foreign parts,
Like England, Europe's Glory.
Whether in sultry climes ye rove,
A solitary stranger,
Or seek the foreign fair one's love,
Where lurks deceit and danger;
Where will ye find domestic bliss;
With social sweets before ye,
A land so great so free as this-
Like England, Europe's Glory
THERE is a smile that oft-times play,
With seeming gladness on the cheek,
A smile that speaks an outward ease,
Although the anguish'd bosom break.
And when we see it lights the eye,
We think we see contentment there;
Yet searce it hides the deep-drawn sigh;
Yet scarce conceals the glistening tear.
So when we view the glow-worms rays,
The sparkling gem, we ne'er suspect,
Nor think the shining insect preys
Upon the leaf it seems to deck.
HERE'S THE BOWER.*
HERE'S the bow'r she lov'd so much,
Here's the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she us'd to touch,
Oh! how that touch enchanted!
Roses now unheeded sigh,
Where's the hand to wreathe them
Songs around neglected lie,
Where's the lips to breathe them?
Spring may bloom but she we lov'd,
Ne'er shall feel its sweetness;
Time that once so sweetly mov'd,
Now hath lost its fleetness;
Years were days when here she stray'd,
Days were moments near her;
Heav'n ne'er form'd a brighter maid,
Nor pity wept a dearer.
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